Then he saw her. A woman lay propped against a marble crypt, its surface stained dark by rain. Her coat was torn, her shoes lost, and her long dark hair clung to her face. Blood spread beneath her, diluted by rainwater that flowed toward the path.
She was heavily pregnant. She lifted her head with effort, her eyes locking onto him with fierce urgency. “Sir,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “the baby is coming.”
Thomas felt panic rise like a wave. He had never assisted a birth. He barely knew how to calm himself in a crisis, let alone someone else. Yet there was no one else here, and something in her gaze left no room for refusal.
“Try to breathe slowly,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I am here. You are not alone.”
Tears streaked down her cheeks as another contraction seized her. “Do not let my child die,” she pleaded.
He tried to call emergency services, but the screen showed no signal. The cemetery swallowed sound and connection alike.
Between gasps, she spoke again, her words uneven but deliberate. “My name is Evelyn Crosswell. I lead Crosswell Industries.”